


Shitty Little Things in Boxes

by inatshej



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Derek, Bakery, Beacon Hills, Biting, Boys Kissing, Crying Derek, Cultural References, Dating, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Hurt Derek Hale, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Blow Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Married Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mutual Masturbation, Neck Kissing, POV Derek, Pining, Pining Derek, Police Officer Stiles Stilinski, Sexual Fantasy, Stiles Stilinski Cooks, Tags Are Fun, Workaholic Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 02:52:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10710657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inatshej/pseuds/inatshej
Summary: Derek looked over Stiles' books and all the other shitty little things he was bent on keeping, not caring about them being Stiles' possessions anymore and gripping them tightly, crying over each and every one that struck a memory in him, crying even more when he didn't recognise another small nonsense because apparently, that's what was left of his life with Stiles. Shitty little things in boxes.





	Shitty Little Things in Boxes

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 'For better, for worse' by Vendelin and the image of Derek buying a frozen pizza I had in mind. I'm sorry for any mistakes, English is not my first language. And yes, I tried to title it differently, but really, Shitty Little Things in Boxes make sense the most :D

 

   
Derek stood in the shop, hating himself for hesitating. He finally decided to reach out and take the damned frozen pizza, careful to keep his face blank. He could feel Heather's pitiful eyes anyways and gave her money, annoyed that he knew her name and that she cared enough to not say anything.

It's only when he got home that he realized he's taken a four cheese pizza, Stiles' favorite.

Just another reminder of Stiles.

 

He was busy with his organization's plan for an educational campaign for high schoolers when Erica interrupted him.

''What is it?'' he snapped, frowning at her from above the document.

''Stiles,'' she started. ''He was shot.''

 

'It's nothing serious', Melissa, the nurse said and he wanted to laugh. In a couple of days, Stiles will be released. He won't be going home.

Stiles almost smiled at the word in this unpleasant, sarcastic way. ''I'll be staying with Scott and Allison,'' he said, his voice even, meeting Derek's eyes.

Derek got home, ate leftover risotto Stiles has prepared the day before but kept himself from going to his study. Their home was nice, almost catalogue-like. There weren't any photographs, Derek hated them, no paintings, no statues and other trivialities Stiles promised to keep in boxes as to not clutter the space.

Their home looked impersonal. No wonder Stiles found it funny to even call it ''home''.

 

He got to the work the next day. Stiles didn't want him to take a break. ''I know how important the organization is for you,'' he said. He was serious, maybe somewhat sad. It was hard to tell anymore.

Erica pressed him to think about a couple of free days. Before he could drop his voice to a lower, angrier one – it was his fucking decision – he actually looked up at her, only then seeing how pale she was.

He stared at his desk, feeling completely cold inside, struggling to appear indifferent. ''Stiles made it clear that I should only see him after work. It would help me a lot if you could contact Lydia and ask her to prepare divorce papers.''

 

It would've been much easier if he could hate Scott or Allison when they looked at him apologetically, repeating that it's just for now.

It would've been much easier if he could snap at Erica, Boyd, Isaac instead of hearing Stiles' _you don't want that._

It would've been much easier if he could stay additional hours at the office, continue to work at home, just look over the documents again, but he couldn't, not when Stiles said ''I don't know'' when asked whether he wants the divorce.

 

He ended up playing with puzzles, laying his eyes on the box and remembering Stiles' grin when they bought it a few years ago. They have never come around to even opening it.

 

Stiles really took some of his stuff and left to Scott and Allison's.

 

The next days were harder. He missed the dumbest things, Stiles' cooking, the music he played, how he left his shoes wherever.

He decided to start filling in his free time easily, with music. There was a lot of Stiles' CDs. He got hooked up on Agnes Obel's quiet piano almost immediately.

 

About one week have passed since their last contact. Derek wondered if he should get used to it. He didn't seem to be able to.

He played Agnes Obel as soon as he got home-

as soon as he got to his place to drown out the thoughts. The image that kept on popping up in his mind, forming together with the sounds was there again. He sighed and looked for some paper and a pencil.

 

As much as he didn't like takeaways or frozen foods, the coffee to go in Greenberg's bakery was great. If only Greenberg didn't talk quite as much or looked sorry for him.

He was about to go out when he saw Stiles.

''Hi,'' said Stiles quietly.

Derek nodded, staring at the man. He was in his uniform and god, was he good looking-

when was the last time he thought that? They've been _living_ together, _for fuck's sake._

''Are you- better?'' he asked finally.

''Yeah, but I'm staying at my desk the whole day.''

''Paperwork,'' guessed Derek, trying to ignore how the whole bakery watched them. If not now, when could they talk?

 

''So, you're late for work the third time this week,'' noticed Erica, eyeing him. ''And I've heard you like to chat with Stiles at Greenberg's. Maybe I won't have to worry about your dinners anymore soon?''

''You don't worry about my dinners,'' Derek answered flatly.

''Of course I do. I worry about everything that comes inside you,'' she smirked.

He grimaced, watching her leave. Trust Erica to turn anything into an innuendo.

By that line of thought, when was the last time he had sex with Stiles?

He couldn't remember.

 

Those small talks with Stiles before their work became normal. Derek was so grateful for any kind of contact with him he didn't mind that it lasted only about 10, 15 minutes at most, and Stiles never flirted with him. (Huh, when was the last time he thought about flirting?)

It was like talking to a neighbor. A friendly neighbor, but still, a neighbor respecting the boundaries.

Except Derek didn't want any boundaries.

 

He desperately needed more pencils, crayons, some paints, maybe even watercolors like those beautiful ones that Stiles bought for him when he's heard Derek was painting as a teenager. They were probably still around somewhere, never used.

He bit his lip, unsure.

 

The melody for the „Riverside” wouldn't leave him alone, so when he was alone in the office, he started to hum the song, lost in the organization's finances. He barely saw Boyd in time to stop singing, faking clearing his throat.

''Nils Frahm is quite good,'' said Boy, staring at his computer.

''Sorry?''

''If you like Agnes Obel. Nils Frahm is quite good as well.''

No wonder he was Erica's husband.

 

The watercolors were beautiful, more so than he remembered. There was a small note attached. _Happy birthday, Derek_ , it read. _Love you, Stiles_.

It seemed like so long ago.

 

Sex with Stiles was good. Even when they got married and their feelings weren't that intense anymore, they knew each other's bodies well enough to stay close. It's not that they have decided to stop at some point, they were just tired, Stiles was working weird shifts, Derek was staying behind for the documentation, and if they needed to, it was faster, easier to jerk off hastily in the shower.

They could've tried harder, but, well, they didn't.

It seemed strange now to say the least, when he remembered the heat of Stiles' mouth, bringing him fast to the edge and kissing him with his come still on the lips, or that time when they jerked each other off in the restaurant, Derek trying to stifle the sounds Stiles made with a deep kiss but failing, wanting to hear more of the moans, or when Stiles fucked him and he couldn't think coherently anymore, trying to get enough friction, rubbing his cock on the mattress, Stiles deep inside him, talking dirty, or when they had frottage, both tired after work, resting, having eaten late dinner, laying on the couch, just being close, Derek kissing and biting Stiles' neck, Stiles playing with his nipples-

but there he was.

 

The meetings with Stiles were now the highlight of his day.

''I loved those books. _Don't eat the mystery meat, Camp Dracula, Boo New Year,_ '' counted Stiles before grinning. ''Or my favorite, _The Dead Sox_.''

''I can't imagine anyone willingly taking a book from a Graveyard School cycle, especially if the author is Tom B. Stone.''

''Didn't you willingly-''

''I did not,'' interjected Derek, fighting a smile. ''I've only read three of those books. It was a research. I was sure everyone knew them and it was natural that I'd-''

''Sure,'' drawled Stiles, keeping his eyes on Derek. ''Just a research.''

He flushed at the attention.

 

He's finished another simple painting, not wanting to start anything bigger, but feeling fulfilled anyway. The work was going good, his relations with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac better than ever, the whatever-it-is with Stiles making him so hopeful. He kept thinking about the open smile on Stiles' face, the way he looked at him.

He took another paper and a soft pencil, keeping the image in his mind.

 

He borrowed _The Dead Sox_ from the library, ignoring the librarian's look.

 

It was Derek that asked for being closer with Stiles.

Stiles made him happy, not just being there, but creating a place for Derek in Beacon Hills again, introducing him to Heather, Greenberg, Lydia, Melissa, Scott, Allison and so many others, supporting Derek when he was wondering about founding an organization dealing with educating teenagers.

When did he start working longer, just to finish this document and send a mail, when did he stop relishing the taste of Stiles' cooking, when did he stop looking at his husband, tiredly passing him by-

Faced with the memories, he watched his coffee, realizing that he's never said sorry.

''Yeah,'' spoke Stiles finally. ''Me too.''

 

And it was gone.

 

The four cheese pizza was disgustingly fat, the base too dry and the taste just bland. He left it and moved to look over the CDs, then Stiles' books and all the other shitty little things he was bent on keeping, not caring about them being Stiles' possessions anymore and gripping them tightly, crying over each and every one that struck a memory in him, crying even more when he didn't recognise another small nonsense because apparently, that's what was left of his life with Stiles. Shitty little things in boxes.

 

He must've looked really bad, because Greenberg didn't say anything after an obligatory 'heey' died on his lips, gazing on Derek.

Erica ordered for him a take-out, some better kind. The taste was nowhere close to Stiles'-

Boyd played Agnes Obel the whole day. Isaac must have been sick when the „Riverside” started for the sixth time but didn't say anything.

He didn't say anything when Derek stayed longer, too. He had a reason, he kept on coming late to work recently, and sure, he stayed longer those few minutes as well, but he just needed to finish this report, and then it'd be good to change some things on their website, and-

it's not like he had anything to do at his place.

Isaac stayed another two hours with him, guilt driving Derek from the office earlier than he'd intended.

 

Fuck.

It felt like the whole Beacon Hills was watching him going down the street. Didn't Greenberg live somewhere around here as well? Great, even if not everyone was watching him, they'll have heard of Derek coming to see Stiles by tomorrow.

He couldn't care less about it anymore when Stiles agreed to meet with him in a few days.

 

He felt like a freaking teenager planning out his date with Stiles-

his _date_ \- with _Stiles_ -

Right. Unless it wasn't a date.

 

He couldn't ask about it. If it wasn't-

it was bad. If it was, Stiles could want something, some sort of declaration, and he had every right to it, but Derek wasn't ready. There was no guarantee for him not to fuck up-

and so on.

Choosing the place with the arcade games was the right decision. Stiles smiled brilliantly at the idea and they talked, and it was so easy, and he had so much fun just being there, it was all hard to believe. Sure, he had to tear his eyes away from lingering too long on Stiles' mouth, but Stiles didn't see that. Or at least didn't call him on that.

Stiles looked at him once more before heading to Scott and Allison's place and smiled. Derek felt his mouth quirk in response and broke into a full grin when Stiles waved at him cheerfully. It was such a dumb little thing, yet he was suddenly feeling so much-

but, he had to behave like a friend. He willed himself to stop watching Stiles and turned back, ignoring the urge to glance at him.

Not his place anymore.

 

He tidied up the room, putting all the pencils and watercolors away. He was always the one to clean. Stiles would cook, he would clean. It worked like that. _They_ worked and he just-

couldn't Stiles wait just for-

why wasn't he there again when Stiles-

he was a mess in his spotless place.

 

Of all the possibilities, the next time they met Stiles wanted to go for a long walk in the preserve. Of course it made Derek think of how they'd go for those in the past, just talking, just being next to each other. It didn't mean what Derek could think it meant, it only meant that Stiles wanted to take a long walk and they went for a long walk.

The view was breathtaking. He kept still, trying to remember everything, thought about one painter who could watch a scenery for 15 minutes and then go back home to paint it, just like that.

''What is it?'' asked Stiles.

He shook his head. ''I like the view,'' he said, grimacing at the words. He's never been good with them.

Stiles smiled in the answer anyway, stepping closer and took a photo to send it to him.

 

Derek didn't like photographs. It's not like this one was even good, it was slightly tilted and the light could've been better. He could delete it when he was done with the painting.

He was done with the painting.

...still, a single photo doesn't take much memory. It's just a shitty little thing-

of course it's not, it reminds him of the time spent with Stiles when they were so close, happy to be in each others' presence-

It's _j_ _ust a picture._

 

He asked Boyd to play Nils Frahm. Isaac groaned and demanded something else, _anything_ else, after 15 minutes.

 

He went back to the library to return _The Dead Sox_ , book completely ridiculous and way too entertaining when he saw a poster for a play.

 

They were both overdressed in their suits compared to the rest of the audience at school. It was okay, though, even if everyone kept looking at them because Stiles was close, and he kept on smiling, and Derek couldn't help but smile as well.

It was perfect.

When the high schoolers' attempt at the play in a horror movie style finished they were both relaxed and smiling so much it almost hurt. The play was great, completely ridiculous, but it was fun, and it was with Stiles, and when he stepped impossibly closer, their faces just inches apart, Derek watched his eyes, his mouth, his long, pale neck, and he wanted to kiss and turn Stiles' mouth red, lips parted, wanted his neck bruised from his grip, with hickeys formed that would mark him, wanted to take Stiles even closer, their lengths brushing, touching his nipples as he takes him apart, the friction just enough to cause Stiles gasp, moan, _whine_ at his climax, wanted to taste all of him and-

he did neither because it was Derek and he couldn't guarantee it won't end the same way it did before.

He stood so close to Stiles, felt his warm breath, saw his tongue wetting his lips and he looked away. He stepped away. ''I don't-,'' he started, his eyes everywhere but on Stiles, ''I can't.''

He breathed heavily, he was probably flushed, his hands in fists. ''I'm sorry,'' he whispered, watching the ground with wide eyes, and left.

 

Fucking puzzles weren't helping much.

Neither did painting, music, cleaning or _Don't eat the mystery meat._

 

''Are you okay? What happened?''

''I'm – fine,'' answered Derek, woken suddenly from his numbness from the last two days, staring at Stiles.

Something flickered through the man's expression. ''Does it have to do with the organization?''

''No,'' replied Derek, surprised. He all but forgot about his work during the weekend, focused on Stiles and their last meeting on Friday.

They looked at each other for a moment. ''Uh, you want to come in?''

Stiles nodded and left his shoes on the doormat. Derek stared at it but didn't say anything. Stiles always left his shoes anywhere but where they should be – on the doormat.

He cleared his throat. ''Coffee?''

''Yes, please.''

God, was it awkward. As awkward as the visits in the hospital when Stiles was shot. They just looked anywhere but at each other until Stiles run out of jokes and said, ''You should go, you're probably tired after work,'' and he'd leave _his husband_ just after about one hour.

''Oh, you're dirty here,'' noticed Stiles.

Derek glanced down at the smudge. ''Right,'' he replied. Took a breath. ''I was painting.''

''Really? Can I see?''

The point was, Derek wanted him to see. The drawings weren't that good, he'd admit, but there was something in each of them he liked.

Stiles was smiling, looking through them. He stopped when he saw his own portrait.

Derek froze.

''I didn't know you drew people as well,'' said Stiles lightly, conversationally, searching for more, but coming up with nothing. There was just Stiles.

''I don't.''

''But you have drawn me,'' observed Stiles, his back to Derek, his voice still mild.

He didn't have to answer that, but he didn't have to keep the photo Stiles has sent him either, or read the Graveyard School books, or keep the tickets to the play they've seen.

''I love you.''

The words all but slipped from his mouth. He waited for a few seconds, scared shitless, silence between them almost unbearable. At first he wasn't sure if the man has even heard him, but Stiles finally turned.

He was furious.

''Oh, fuck you,'' spat Stiles, glaring at Derek. ''You come to the hospital, can't get one word out, but when I'm out, you fucking make friends with me. And, sure, that'd be nice but then you say sorry out of the blue, and I guess that you don't really want that, do you? But you come ask me on a date. And I fucking fall in love with you, again, cause that's the dumbest thing to do when you just want to help me and be friends, and I'm not sure if you want to be just friends, but you behave like one! And then I think, oh fuck, you're just trying to help me because your work is _literally helping people_! So I'm about to deal with it. I can do that. But then you almost kiss me just to run away. Oh, and apologize, sure. But I think, well, fuck, you didn't exactly ask me for the divorce. You asked whether I want it. Plus, Heather told me you bought four-cheese pizza which is saying something, and Greenberg says you're moping and it should be hilarious, but is really not. So maybe you actually don't want the divorce? I can't tell, so I come here and you're reading _Don't eat the mystery meat_ , you've drawn my portrait, our home – fuck, best time for a Freudian slip – home looks like an actual home and now what – you love me?!''

Stiles stops to take a breath and stares at still unmoving Derek.

''Wait,'' he frowns. ''That just shows that you have communication problems, which you do, and that you love me, which you-'' he stops, staring Derek, ''also do?''

Slowly, Derek nods, before flicking his eyes to Stiles.

''I-,'' he starts suddenly, ''the pizza was a coincidence. But the tickets are, uh, the memorabilia.''

Stiles stared at him. ''God, I've forgotten how cute you can be at times. And, shit, now you've said 'memorabilia' and I just want to kiss you senseless.'' He paused, then his eyes widened as he realized what he's just said. He blushed furiously but nevertheless gazed at Derek after a while, his expression turning more serious. ''Does that mean that I can unpack my stuff, my memorabilia or trivialities or however you call this shit from the boxes?''

''That's- yes. I'm sorry I-''

''No, no, just – do you want to try everything again? I mean, I work at the weirdest times, and I make a mess, but you already know that-''

''No, it's your job, I get it,'' replies Derek, trying to focus, but it's hard when Stiles is so close to him, touching his arms, staring at him. ''I really like your mess. I've missed it,'' he adds softer and then even quieter, ''But I can fuck up again.''

''Yeah, absolutely, me too,'' Stiles agrees easily, ''but I still want that, you know?''

''Yeah,'' breaths Derek, ''me too.''

The kiss is shy and close-mouthed at first but grows heated. They are plastered to each other, Stiles moaning and Derek watching him, licking and kissing his neck, forming a hickey because _he finally can_.

But, god, there is no guarantee it will work. Still, when he hears Stiles giving him shit about reading _Don't eat the mystery meat_ , when Stiles tells him how worried Lydia, Scott, Allison and pretty much the whole of Beacon Hills was, when Stiles smiles and leans closer to kiss him softly – he wants to try that. Even if the only things to guide him from mistakes are his memories and shitty little things in boxes.

 

 


End file.
